


pretend

by onthecontrary



Series: unconventional [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, even though he technically broke in, improper use of em-dashes, improper use of semicolons, james comes home sad, q welcomes him with a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthecontrary/pseuds/onthecontrary
Summary: “I almost bloody shot you,” Q says, huffing.“Yes, nice to see you too, Q,” Bond returns, as though he hadn’t just disappeared mid-mission, uncontactable for the whole of one week.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: unconventional [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070426
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	pretend

The vibrations of his watch startles him awake — it’s in a rhythmic pattern he’s never encountered, which means it’s probably not a package delivery nor a visitor. He assesses the rhythm, two long buzzes, one short one, another last, long buzz. The gears of his sleep-mucked brain turn — his eyes abruptly fly open as he regards the time of day as well: four a.m.

There’s someone else in his flat.

Q quickly detangles himself from his comforters, equips his glasses, and opens his bedside drawer. Inside, a loaded pistol awaits, which Q picks up and releases the safety of. He pads silently to the corridor that leads to his living room — the lights are on, casting a clear shadow on the plain wall towards the back.

A man sits on his couch.

The gun feels familiar against Q’s hands; he’s already got a grip on the trigger. This should be easy enough — step out of his hiding place, aim, and shoot. Q takes a deep breath in—

He moves—

His gun is already aimed — a perfect headshot. It will be clean, save for the blood that will inevitably spatter his coffee table in front of the sofa. Q presses on the trigger lightly, assesses the man: blond hair, black crisp suit, bright blue eyes as he turns to face Q’s gun with no emotion whatsoever plastered on his oh so familiar face.

Wait.

Q drops the gun, the clunk of its metal dull against his wooden floorboards.

“I almost bloody shot you,” Q says, huffing.

“Yes, nice to see you too, Q,” Bond returns, as though he hadn’t just disappeared mid-mission, uncontactable for the whole of one week.

“I take it you haven’t reported to M?”

“It’s four in the morning,” Bond says, and Q admits that he has a point, “I wouldn’t want to see my boss in his pyjamas.”

Q looks down at himself: ratty oversized sweater and checkered sweatpants.

“Yes, quite,” he quips.

Q treads closer, silently, so as to not startle the two sleeping bundles of fur on their cat tower. Bond’s suit is still unbelievably crisp — the large stains of dried blood on his white shirt aren’t doing him any favors, though.

“Mission report, 007,” he says — for the sake of formality.

“Asset obtained,” Bond says, not moving an inch as he drones out the details in monotone. “Secured. Locker 26-A. Equipment returned to R at approximately three a.m. Tuesday.”

Q’s eyebrows raise at the news of his inventions being returned—

“Clarification: what’s left of the equipment,” Bond interrupts him before he even speaks. “That is to say, the signal broadcaster, which, incidentally, broke.”

“Right,” Q huffs out a sigh.

Bond doesn’t continue to the next part of usual mission de-briefs. Q squints: Bond is not meeting his eyes; his body is a rigid statue that almost shows no tell, except, except—

His hands are shaking in a tremor. The slightest bit, but Q sees it.

“Casualties,” Q says, a little gently.

Bond’s gaze darts up so quickly, Q almost startles. His eyes finally meet Q’s — they look about ten years too young, the hardness gained from assassin training stripped away.

Q doesn’t dare break eye contact.

“Forty-two,” Bond says, and Q tries his best to look nonplussed. “All killed at relatively close range with the Walther and the utility knife. Full written report pending.”

Forty-two people is a lot, Q thinks. But for a double-oh agent? Bond’s never been this tense, this distressed. What has got him so tightly wound up—?

“Three children,” Bond says, interrupting his thoughts.

_ Oh. _

“Civilians?” Just to make sure.

“The wanker brought his children to work,” Bond elaborates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Two males, maybe seven and ten. One female, maybe fifteen. Mother was in the room as well — had a .45 on me.”

_ “God,  _ Bond—”

“She wasn’t brave enough to shoot. Killed the youngest first,” James said, with too much emotionlessness. “Then the other two. And then the mother. Not sure if the order was cruel or sympathetic.”

“Bond—”

“It was quick,” he continues. “Painless. The most painless way I know how, I promise—”

“James—”

“It had to be done — M said no witnesses, no residue — I couldn’t— it wasn’t  _ my _ choice—”

“James!”

James stops.

If James were not an agent, if his emotions weren’t so dulled by the hell that is being an assassin, if James were a normal man, this is where he would break down, Q thinks. His head is bowed down low, his leg doing the signature up and down motion when one is distressed or nervous, his breathing a little uneven in its rhythm.

“Report over, Quartermaster,” James says, voice only slightly more audible than a whisper.

Q moves forward, and touches his thigh to where James’ head is bowed down. The latter nuzzles his head against the flannel of his sweatpants, and Q tentatively touches the side of his face, then his jaw, then the fine strands of thatch-blond hair.

“Mission successful,” he gets out, even if all he feels is Bond as he relaxes under the gentle caresses of his hand against his hair. “Well done, 007.”

It’s quieter than ever just then — so quiet, that Q feels as though he could almost hear James’ tense muscles relax as he continues to card his hands through James’ hair; perhaps that shift in breathing — the way it is now lighter and less ragged — is only in his head, but how could Q be sure when James stands up, envelops him in a hug that Q returns with as much vigour, longing,  _ want, _ and then steals a majority of Q’s oxygen and brain-processing capabilities with a kiss long overdue?

James’ hands — the same very hands which caused the catastrophes Q was told of just minutes ago — cradle his jaw like it’s a fragile sculpture, like it’s delicate, like it’s glass: carefully, lightly, gently.

_ It’s okay, _ Q conveys through his kiss, clutching the lapels of James’ suit jacket desperately.  _ It’s okay, even though it isn’t. _

They part, breathless, and if there was a nirvana Q assumes that this would be what it looks, feels, tastes like: James’ endless blue eyes, Q’s hands atop James’ on his jaw, James here, James safe,  _ James— _

“I-“

James breaks off.

But Q knows. He knows, because how could he not, when James’ hands are wound tight around his waist like this, the tips of his fingers worming their way up under Q’s sweater for warmth? How could he not, when James presses as much of himself as possible on Q, as though starved for touch and attention?

How could he not, when Q misses him just as much?

“And I you, James,” he says, one last kiss against James’ lips — they’re still intertwined; a braid refusing to come loose.

James smiles — an open, honest expression that Q burns to memory.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Q says, pulling James by the tie into his bathroom.

In their little world, they can pretend: James’ suit isn’t stained with the blood of innocent children. James’ hands aren’t tremoring; they’re clean. The wetness on his cheek, Q thinks, is from the shower — and his heart isn’t crying for the children, for the mother, nor for James.

So Q pretends.


End file.
